Youthful Innocence
I just dropped my kids off for their first day of school (6th and 8th grades) -- Wow how time flies.
As usual, I went with my camera, just like I did when it was kindergarten. I remember that First Day so very well. Kindergarten... ahhhh, so special. All those wide eyes with matching expressions of excitement. And those were just the parents. The kids wore the to be expected grins of fear. But that moment outside the classroom door was something special. Parents -- both moms and dads were in attendance then -- spoke to each other about the teacher, discussing what they had heard about her. How she was a grandmotherly, nurturing type. I almost expected to see Mother Goose open the door and greet my child.
That morning, now seven years past, was filled with something special that I'll never forget: youthful innocence. Excited parents made friendships that turned into dinner groups. Kids with fresh minds stepped into a room with a clean chalkboard.
And the escalator of life started up.
Since then, time has moved on. Divorce and death have taken their toll on those friendships. My child is not as innocent as she once was. Parents no longer seem excited about what teachers their children have. Everyone talks less outside the classroom on the first day.
This morning I stood next to parents who could be described as suburban corpses. They live in boxes next to neighbors they never speak to. They walk a harried pace, but seem to have no special destination. They just keep moving up the escalator.
I miss the youthful innocence I saw seven years ago, parent and child alike. Maybe that's part of the reason why I write for children, camera hanging from my neck.
As usual, I went with my camera, just like I did when it was kindergarten. I remember that First Day so very well. Kindergarten... ahhhh, so special. All those wide eyes with matching expressions of excitement. And those were just the parents. The kids wore the to be expected grins of fear. But that moment outside the classroom door was something special. Parents -- both moms and dads were in attendance then -- spoke to each other about the teacher, discussing what they had heard about her. How she was a grandmotherly, nurturing type. I almost expected to see Mother Goose open the door and greet my child.
That morning, now seven years past, was filled with something special that I'll never forget: youthful innocence. Excited parents made friendships that turned into dinner groups. Kids with fresh minds stepped into a room with a clean chalkboard.
And the escalator of life started up.
Since then, time has moved on. Divorce and death have taken their toll on those friendships. My child is not as innocent as she once was. Parents no longer seem excited about what teachers their children have. Everyone talks less outside the classroom on the first day.
This morning I stood next to parents who could be described as suburban corpses. They live in boxes next to neighbors they never speak to. They walk a harried pace, but seem to have no special destination. They just keep moving up the escalator.
I miss the youthful innocence I saw seven years ago, parent and child alike. Maybe that's part of the reason why I write for children, camera hanging from my neck.